Twilight draped Hastinapura's royal garden in a soft, purple haze, the air thick with the scent of blooming roses that climbed the stone walls, their petals glowing faintly in the fading light. A wooden platform creaked under the pounding of small feet, its planks groaning as a chaotic pack of boys raced across it, their shouts and laughter bouncing through the space. The Ganga roared beyond the walls, a steady thunder that rumbled beneath the noise, its sound a constant pulse in the evening stillness. Gandhari sat on a cushioned seat near the platform, her indigo sari bright against the muted tones of dusk, its folds pooling around her as she clapped her hands, her blindfold hiding her beaming eyes. Her laughter rang out, warm and clear, as she tilted her head toward the clamor, her voice rising above the din.
"Look at them, my hundred—stronger every day!" she said, her hands clasping together as she rocked slightly, her sari rustling with each delighted sway. "Oh, what a sight they'd be if I could see—such fire, such life!"
Duryodhana led the charge, now four and a half, his dark tunic dusty and torn at the hem, a stick raised high as he barked orders, his small boots stomping the wood. His dark curls bounced wildly, his eyes blazing with fierce pride as he swung his stick, its blunt end clashing against another's. "I'm the king! Follow me—charge!" he shouted, his voice loud and commanding, cutting through the chaos like a whip.
Duhshasana raced at his heels, his smaller frame a blur as he waved his own stick, his tunic streaked with dirt from an earlier tumble. His fair hair flew back, his grin fierce and wild as he echoed his brother, his voice shrill and eager. "Charge, charge! Brother's king—I'm next!" He swung at a toddling boy, who yelped and dodged, the stick whistling past his ear.
The other ninety-nine tumbled and shouted around them, a swirling mass of dark tunics and flailing limbs, their sticks clashing in a mock battle that sent dust rising from the platform. Some wrestled, others ran, their cries blending into a raucous din that filled the garden, a chaotic pack thriving under Gandhari's doting gaze. She clapped again, her laughter bubbling up as she leaned forward, her voice warm and playful. "Oh, Duryodhana, my brave one! Lead them, my love—show them how it's done!"
Dhritarashtra stood apart, near a trellis heavy with climbing vines, his dark tunic crisp and stiff, his staff tapping the stone path in a restless rhythm. His broad shoulders hunched slightly, his blind eyes twitching beneath heavy brows as he tilted his head, listening to the boys but hearing something else—a softer voice cutting through the noise. A trader, wiry and sun-browned, stood beside him, his rough cloak patched, his hands twisting nervously as he spoke, his words low and hesitant. "Sire, tales from the west—forest folk talk of five boys, Pandu's sons. Blessed, they say—divine. Strong, sharp, coming east."
Dhritarashtra's staff paused, his fingers clenching it tighter as his voice rumbled out, gruff and sharp. "Five? Pandu's brats? Against my hundred? Let them come—I've got a legion here!" He tapped the staff again, harder, the sound cracking against the stone, his jaw tightening as he turned toward the trader.
The trader flinched, stepping back, his voice trembling but insistent. "Blessed, sire—gods' blood, they whisper. One lifts trees, another shoots leaves from the air, the little ones tame wild horses. Coming east, they say—toward the city."
Gandhari's laughter faltered, her head tilting as she caught the trader's words, her voice warm but curious. "What's that? Forest boys? Oh, they're no match for my hundred, trader—look at them! Duryodhana alone could scatter five!" She clapped again, her sari shifting as she settled back, her smile unshaken.
Duryodhana leapt off the platform, landing with a thud that sent dust swirling, his stick raised as he shouted, his voice loud and bold. "I'll rule 'em all, Mother! Five or fifty—I'm strongest! Watch me!" He charged at a cluster of brothers, shoving one aside, his small chest puffing out as he grinned, fierce and triumphant.
Duhshasana followed, tumbling after him, his stick swinging wildly as he laughed, his voice shrill and eager. "Scatter 'em, brother! I'll help—best ever!" He poked at another boy, who squealed and ran, the platform creaking as the pack surged again.
Dhritarashtra's staff tapped faster, his blind eyes twitching as he turned away from the trader, his voice low and gruff, a growl beneath the garden's joy. "Blessed, eh? Trees and arrows? My hundred's got fire—wild fire. Five can't touch that—Pandu's widow's dreaming if she thinks it."
The trader shifted, his hands twisting tighter as he glanced at the boys, his voice nervous but steady. "Dreaming or not, sire, they're moving. Folk say they've left the forest—headed this way. Strong one's a giant already, they claim—uprooted a tree in a storm."
Gandhari clapped once more, her laughter ringing as she waved a hand, her voice bright and oblivious. "A giant? Oh, my Duryodhana's a giant too—look at him lead! And Duhshasana, so fierce! A hundred giants, trader—what's five to that?" She rocked again, her sari catching the last of the twilight, her bliss a shield against the words.
Duryodhana spun, his stick jabbing the air as he glared toward the trellis, his voice loud and defiant. "Five? I'll smash 'em! Me and Duhshasana—we're best! No forest brats beat us!" He stomped the ground, his small boots kicking up dirt, his dark eyes flashing with challenge.
Duhshasana giggled, racing to his side, his stick raised high as he shouted, his voice fierce and wild. "Smash 'em! Break 'em! We're strongest—hundred strong!" He swung at an imaginary foe, his small frame trembling with glee, his loyalty a bright, burning thing.
Dhritarashtra's staff stilled, his hands clenching it until his knuckles whitened, his voice dropping to a mutter, rough and uneasy. "A hundred strong, yes. But blessed? Pandu's sons—coming east? My throne's mine—mine and my boys'." He turned toward the platform, his blind gaze unfocused, his pride souring into a shadow that crept through his chest.
The trader bowed low, his cloak rustling as he stepped back, his voice soft and quick. "Just tales, sire—forest whispers. But they spread fast—herders, weavers, all talking. Five divine boys, they say—Hastinapura'll hear soon."
Gandhari tilted her head, her hands resting on her lap as she laughed again, her voice warm and playful. "Let them talk! My hundred'll drown their whispers—look at them charge! Oh, my loves, my pride—stronger every day!" She clapped, her sari bright against the dusk, her joy a counterpoint to the unease curling around Dhritarashtra.
Duryodhana leapt back onto the platform, his stick clashing against another's, his voice booming as he rallied the pack, his small frame bristling with dominance. "Charge again! Follow me—I'm king! No one beats us!" He shoved a toddling brother aside, his grin wide and fierce, the platform shaking under his command.
Duhshasana scrambled up, his stick swinging as he shouted, his voice shrill and eager. "King brother! Best ever—charge, charge!" He poked at the air, his small feet slipping on the dusty wood, his laughter tangling with the din.
Dhritarashtra stepped closer to the trellis, his staff tapping once more as he muttered, his voice low and gruff, barely audible over the boys' clamor. "Five against my legion? Blessed or not, they'll find no throne here—not while I sit it." He gripped the staff tighter, his blind eyes twitching faster, his unease festering beneath the garden's twilight glow.
The roses swayed in a faint breeze, the Ganga's roar steady beyond the walls, the platform creaking as the hundred surged on, their sticks clashing in a wild, chaotic dance. Gandhari revelled, her laughter bright and blind to the trader's warning, her sons' growth a fierce tide under her doting gaze. Dhritarashtra brooded, the trader's words a thorn in his pride, the garden tense with unspoken rivalry as the Kauravas' rise met the distant echo of the Pandavas' approach.